Hope Redeemed--A Spanish Novella

by Jenny Wheeler

  28

  “So you turned him down?”

  Madeleine and Josefa sat over morning coffee on the Vino d’Oro terrace, enjoying some early sun. Josefa had been back from Benecio’s a few days, and she was relishing the opportunity to catch up with the woman who was rapidly becoming her best friend.

  Madeleine’s mouth crimped with amusement, but she fought to keep her expression solemn.

  “Of course I turned him down!” Josefa exploded into giggles. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, it depends.” Madeleine raised one eyebrow and gave Josefa a playful “oh là là” look.

  Josefa laughed again. Madeleine’s naughtiness really could be irresistible.

  “Depends? Depends on what for goodness sake? The man’s a saphead.”

  “An adorable saphead. One I suspect you’re already half in love with.”

  Josefa rose from her chair and put her hands on her hips in indignant denial, then let them linger on her baby bump in front.

  “You can’t be serious!” She was still laughing, pushing away the late-night thoughts she’d had about the man: his lithe silhouette, whether on his feet or his horse; the searching way he regarded her as he talked, so earnest to be understood; the way his lips curved when he smiled . . .

  “Look at it this way, Josefa. You’re in the family way. What will the reaction of most men be when they consider you as a future wife?”

  Josefa shrugged. “That I come with unwanted baggage?” Her jaw contracted. “Let’s face it, that’s what they all think.”

  “And our bottle-head hero?”

  “Well, the opposite of that. But that’s not the point,” she protested. “A woman in my position wants to preserve some dignity.”

  “Quite right. But which do you prefer? A man who welcomes your child, or one who silently resents it?” Madeleine’s eyes held a wicked twinkle.

  Josefa sighed theatrically. “Okay. You’ve made your point.”

  Madeleine smiled. “Just promise me one thing.”

  Josefa wrinkled her nose. “Why do I have an uncomfortable suspicion you know something you’re not telling me?”

  Madeleine remained silent.

  “Oh, very well then. What do you want me to promise?”

  “That you’ll give him another chance. If the occasion should ever happen to arise, you won’t laugh him out of court. Will you promise me that?”

  “I suppose . . . Oh, all right then.” She knew she sounded grudging, but Josefa hugged the thought to herself deep down inside. Though she knew, really, that miracles didn’t happen.

  I mean, look at the competition. Why would anyone pick me?

  29

  Santiago had been closeted with her brother in Caleb’s study for the past hour, and Josefa was as twitchy as if she’d disturbed a hornet’s nest. He didn’t live or work here any more, so what business did he have here?

  The study was just off the main family room, central to the house, but with the door shut and the thick adobe walls all she could hear was the low hum of male voices.

  She’d tried hard to keep herself busy somewhere in the farthest corners of the house and garden, but she found herself drawn back time and time again in the hope of catching a glimpse of him as he departed.

  A week had passed since the conversation with Madeleine, a week in which she’d had no opportunity to keep her promise. Santiago hadn’t come near. So much for “second chances.” He plainly didn’t want one.

  The deep rumble of the men’s voices and the occasional outbreak of laughter indicated they were getting along just fine without her. Clearly, the chill that had overtaken their friendship when Leo was here had melted. They sounded like they were as close as ever.

  Bully for the boys. She rubbed her itching arms and scowled. She hated being left out.

  She was just wondering whether she’d get Rosario to make coffee, and then use it as an excuse to worm her way in when there was a loud rapping at the front door. Great. A diversion at last. “I’ll get it, Mother!”

  She bobbed her way to the entryway and was amazed to see Madeleine on the threshold, her arms filled with a huge, gorgeous bunch of fresh-cut pink and double-white peonies, at least two dozen of them, the blossoms dripping with their intoxicating sweetness.

  “Madeleine! What a surprise! And the flowers! They’re my favorite, did you know that? They’re lovely, but why? They must have cost a fortune.”

  She dodged the dewy blooms to greet Madeleine in French style with kisses on both cheeks and led her into the family room. “I was about to get Rosario to make coffee. We’ll certainly need some now! Do sit down!”

  Madeleine gestured to the flowers. “Better get Rosario to fill some vases too. Oh, just to be clear, they aren’t from me.” She plucked a scallop-edged ivory card from the stems and presented it to Josefa with a flourish. “You have an admirer.”

  Josefa couldn’t remember when she’d felt so knocked off her feet. An admirer? There must be a catch.

  She stared at Madeleine, the card arrested in her hand. “You’re kidding.”

  Madeleine shook her head. “Read it.”

  Keeping hold of it, too scared to look, Josefa went to the kitchen and asked Rosario for vases and coffee. She followed the housekeeper out as she gathered up the sweet blooms, and then dropped into a chair opposite Madeleine.

  “I suppose you know who it’s from?”

  Madeleine laughed in delight. “Just open it!”

  Josefa’s fingers didn’t want to work. They were frozen in fearful anticipation. What if it wasn’t what she hoped for?

  She gingerly opened the card. Inside, it contained a folded sheet of notepaper and a simple inscription: “Cariño. My heart, My life. S.”

  Josefa’s heart was beating so hard she thought it might jump out of her chest. She opened the note.

  An hour to know you, a day to love you, but it will take me a whole life to be able to forget you.

  Una vida lograr olvidarte.

  “Oh, Madeleine!” Her face was wet with tears.

  The door to Caleb’s study opened, and her brother and Santiago stood in the threshold.

  “Josefa!” Caleb’s cheerful voice boomed out. “Santiago’s here, and I think he has something he wants to show you.”

  Her eyes locked on Santiago’s face, so familiar, and yet so new. He was taller, stronger, more confident than the boy she’d laughed and played with. His eyes were steady with intent. In his hands he held a large white box, tied up with a broad satin ribbon, a big bow on top.

  He closed the distance between them and held the box out in front of him. Still a little dazed by the succession of unlikely events, she took it from him in an automatic reflex action. They stood, inches apart, immobilized. Then he reached his hand with infinite grace to her face and traced the line of her cheekbone with his index finger.

  “My heart, my love. Mi corazón, mi amor.”

  A long silence followed and then he stepped back. “Open it, Josefa. What’s in there speaks more eloquently than a humble vaquero ever could.”

  She raised her brows. “Humble vaquero,” she snorted. “Rogue hombre, more like it.” But she was grinning with silly delight as she said it.

  She dropped back into her chair and the two men joined them at the table, quietly greeting first Madeleine, and then Rosario who returned with the flowers and the coffee. Josefa opened the gift box and began to read from an enclosed parchment sheet. About a dozen clauses were inscribed in a fine calligraphy, presented like a legal document.

  Josefa’s hand went to her mouth. She could barely breathe.

  A contract to honor a lifetime.

  I, Santiago Valaquez MacKinnon, knowing Josefa Martinez Stewart to be a woman of keen intellect and penetrating acumen, hereby offer my life, my love, and all my human strength and frailty to uphold and honor her in full happiness, as long as we both shall live.

  The Pre-Marriage Contract: Presenting an unusual trousseau.

  Namely, her
ewith: Twelve Ways Santiago Honors Josefa.

  One black mantilla in the finest Spanish lace, suitable for weddings and funerals.

  An engraved glass perfume bottle filled with Spanish jessamine toilet water, the favored sweet fragrance of a dark-haired beauty.

  A bouquet of two and a half dozen peony blooms, wonderful to behold, but no more beautiful than the mistress of the house that others like them are destined to fill.

  A certificate of transfer of the favorite mare Esmeralda, in foal, to anywhere Josefa should so desire, signed by Caleb Stewart, ranch owner.

  A solitaire diamond engagement ring in a velvet box, to be worn on the lady’s finger if she assents.

  A carved oak chest, filled with a selection of fine linens. (Awaiting the lady’s attention at the Orleans Hills estate.)

  A bolt of finest gold cloth: suitable for a wedding dress.

  A bolt of black silk: ditto.

  A bolt of embroidered white silk: ditto.

  A pretty baby’s cradle fitted with linen. A nod to our future.

  A commission for a portrait by a well-known California photographer. Because I never want to forget how beautiful you are today.

  There was another signed certificate, from Caleb, promising Josefa one of his hound Venus’s puppies, should she so desire.

  Every now and then Josefa had to stop and dash away tears with the back of her hand. Even so, before she got to the end, her sight was so blurred she had to stop reading. She flashed a look at her silent, intimate audience, shuddering with joy and tenderness.

  Her smile was wide and fixed. She knew it but couldn’t seem to moderate it. “Santiago, I—”

  He stood and gestured. “Finish it, Josefa. You need to finish it.” His voice was quiet but authoritative.

  She scrutinized the parchment, the sheet trembling in her hands. Right at the bottom were two signatures and a blank space for a third, jiggling around in her compromised sight.

  She brought the page up and read more closely.

  A Statement of Intent:

  I, Santiago Mackinnon, undertake to carry out all promised in this document, as a precursor to our marriage, if Josefa Stewart so accepts.

  Santiago’s bold signature trailed to the edge of the page.

  Witnessed and upheld by Caleb Stewart, brother and close friends of the affianced pair.

  Caleb’s signature followed.

  And right at the bottom:

  I, Josefa Stewart, accept the offer of marriage presented today by Santiago Mackinnon, and undertake to embark on the appropriate preparations and agreements to seal the nuptial contract as soon as is decently possible. Signed . . .

  Josefa gazed at Santiago, who remained standing, a few feet from her, his face expectant but solemn.

  Her eyes flicked to Madeleine, teasing. “What a set up! What was it you made me promise a week ago, Madeleine? That I’d give him another chance?” She turned back to Santiago, her heart so full she could barely speak. “I always knew you’d make a wonderful father, Santiago. And after today I’m satisfied you’ll be a magnificent husband. My magnificent husband.” Tears spilled down her cheeks again. “Oh, for goodness sake, someone give me a pen before I turn this whole thing into a soggy mess.”

  With courtly ceremony her brother unscrewed the top of a bottle of black ink and dipped in a nibbed pen. “Here you are. Get it over with. And thank goodness you two have finally seen the light.”

  30

  The thick adobe walls of the Mission Solano chapel in Sonoma absorbed and muffled the restrained chatter of the excited guests as they flowed in to fill every dim corner of the old building. But when the ancient iron Mexican bell that hung out front began chiming, Santiago knew the time was near.

  In the front of the narrow chapel, rows of pews were in place for the very closest members of the wedding party, Aunt Benecio seated one side of the aisle, Doña Valentina the other. The Russell men and their women, Francine and Antal and even Consuela, had found their places, Leo Carver being the only one who was conspicuously absent. Behind the old oak benches it was standing room only, and it appeared as if the whole town and more were crowded in to see Santiago Valaquez Mackinnon wed Josefa Martinez Stewart.

  Among them were many who, like Santiago, paid homage to their shared Spanish heritage, clad in gente de razón thigh-hugging breeches that widened below the knees. Satin sashes in brilliant colors — red, black or, in Santiago’s case, emerald green — looped waists thick and thin, to be glimpsed from under heavily embroidered and gold-braided jackets.

  Santiago was pin-pricked by the jitters. Caleb would be entering through the oak-framed archway in the next few minutes, Josefa on his arm. In the absence of her father Fergus Stewart, who’d been dead nearly twenty years, her brother was doing the honors, giving the bride away.

  He allowed himself a quick, private smile. The idea of anyone “giving the bride away” was so wide of the mark when applied to beautiful, strong-willed Josefa, a woman as likely to allow herself to be “given away” against her wishes as she was to drink cleaning fluid.

  The bell’s sonorous notes faded away. The excited cheers of children wafted into the dim interior, the sunlight filtering through the narrow iron-fretted windows along the side walls. A beam reflected on a silver plate balanced on the altar rail, where the two silver rings they would be exchanging in the next hour lay on white linen.

  It was mid-June, the time early Americans called Full Strawberry Moon, when the first wild summer strawberries ripened, seen as a particularly auspicious for marriage.

  This ceremony — the beginning of several days of partying — was open to anyone who wished to attend, and they’d come from far and wide to be there. Everyone sensed they were witnessing something historic: the mending of a family breach which had outlasted the lives of the principal players and deserved to be ended. All would relish the ensuing fiesta.

  The chapel quieted and stilled, as if in response to a silent command, and the back of Santiago’s neck prickled. He didn’t need to swing around to know that Caleb and Josefa were poised in the entry. He heard the rustle of silk as the chapel’s female audience swiveled, all eyes on the doorway to catch a first glimpse of the bride. He stared straight ahead, past Father Giovanni waiting in his richly braided priest’s robes, fixing his eyes on the altar, on the sparkling light cast from the golden candlesticks, engraving this moment in his heart forever.

  He could hear the soft footfalls as brother and sister advanced, and then Caleb was handing Josefa over, his face flushed with pride, and she was at his side, this woman he wanted to share the rest of his life with, looking even more glorious than he could ever have imagined.

  Her eyes glowed with a joy she could not contain. Under the mist of white mantilla lace that tumbled from a high Spanish comb her face was radiant, a smile trembling on her finely curved lips. He clasped her hand and squeezed gently. “Mi amor,” he whispered.

  She carried a sweet-smelling bouquet of white Castilian roses, and the closeness of her, the waxy smoke of the altar candles, the cloud of incense that hung from the pre-service ministrations . . . For a few seconds the heaviness of the air threatened to overwhelm him.

  The marriage preliminaries had been sparse and solemn. They’d both spent hours in the chapel at different times, praying about the responsibilities they were assuming to each other and their children. They were serious, committed, and prepared, he reminded himself, and he couldn’t faint now.

  Father Giovanni stepped forward with greetings, and the service was underway. Through the Bible readings, the responsorial Psalm, the alleluias and the Gospel, they moved with formal dignity to their vows, and it all flowed before him like an astounding dream.

  They kneeled as an altar boy proffered Father Giovanni the silver plate that had caught Santiago’s eye earlier, the plate carrying their two rings. The priest blessed them and slipped them onto their wedding fingers, then looped a scarf over their shoulders, joining them in a continuous circle, a sec
ond physical sign of their yoking together in matrimony.

  With a loudly proclaimed “Dominus vobiscum” Father Giovanni, now smiling broadly, concluded the formalities. As if on cue, stringed instruments sounded the notes of a popular hymn, and an expectant wave of whispers and rustling swept through the watching crowd.

  Santiago reverently peeled back the mist of lace and swept it back over Josefa’s shoulders to reveal her lovely face. He gazed at her for a few seconds, brushed her forehead with his lips, and laced her arm into his for their first walk together, out into the sunshine, as man and wife.

  Three hours later, after the throng had eaten a large meal and invited guests were finding any comfortable corner to take a siesta before the dancing commenced at sunset, a knot of well-wishers still lingered offering their salutations: “Saludos” and “Viva mil años.” “Live a thousand years” and “God follow you.”

  They’d eaten stewed chicken, a beef hash mixed with scrambled eggs, onions, tomatoes well-seasoned with red chili peppers, beans with tortillas, salted pork and coriander frijoles, roast duck, sweet potatoes and lettuce salad. All washed down with Orleans vino del pais or juice, and sweets served with coffee. Now it was time to rest before the dancing.

  Josefa looped her arm around Santiago’s waist and felt a bolt of warmth shoot through her as he responded by drawing her closer to his side. She whispered in his ear, “It’s time to go if I’m going to dance all night.” The bride had to leave first, giving the guests permission to then also slip away.

  “Mi querido.” He pressed his lips to the side of her head. “You must be exhausted. You’ve been busy for days now, and you’ve ensured it’s a wonderful success.” He pressed his index finger to her lips. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world.”

  She caught hold of his finger and kissed it. “It’s hard to believe we’ve done it. Never in my wildest dreams . . .” Tears flooded her eyes, and she had to squeeze them shut to stop them overflowing. “Look at me. I don’t know what you’re doing to me. The happiest day of my life and I’m crying.” She gave a self-conscious laugh. “It must be the baby.”